My Father's Sword
by Wandering Cat
Summary: A collection of random oneshots based around swordbearing units and their fathers. Number four: Gerik. Up next: Joshua. Suggestions welcome!
1. Chapter 1

**My Father's Sword**  
Wandering Cat

Hello. 'Nother multi-chapter from me, so soon.

_Okay, this fic's plot:_  
There really is none; the chapters will be unrelated, revolving around sword-users from Rekka no Ken and Sacred Stones. Maybe a Fuuin in I'm up to it. I don't know how many chapters there will be. I'll either go until I feel like stopping, or until I run out of sword users. Most likely, I will just stop unless someone gave me an unanswered request. Also, the chapters will not be extremely long.

Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem.

**THIS CHAPTER'S STAR**: Marisa, first person POV. PS--being in first person, ever sentence comes from her mind. No, she isn't out of character; people who don't talk much often have more thoughts.  
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I owe everything to father. He was my guardian, my master, and my only friend.

I never knew my mother. I was never told anything about her, save for that I look just like her. That isn't much. I look nothing like my father. Saying that I look like '_her'_ (as people refer to my mother as) is a given.

It was my father who taught me to walk and talk. My father who tucked me into bed as a child, my father who kissed my scrapes when I still thought that was effective medicine. It is odd, though, because my father is like me. Aloof. People often called us "icecubes in the desert", because Jehannans are generally friendly, being so poor and humble. But when we were alone, just the two of us, he would talk to me in the softest voice and stroke my hair, and no matter how tough it was for us, everything was okay.

That's how things were until I was seven. Warm and happy.

Nobody saw the bandits, nor did anybody expect them. All the men, and some women, rose to combat them, but to no avail. My father was with them. He returned after only a few minutes, or maybe an hour, I didn't know anything save for that I was tired. He said nothing about the battle, just snatched me and whatever else he could carry, breaking down one of the weak walls in our home and bounding out. It was very early. Sleep gave me a blanket of ignorance, so I knew nothing of the battle, and I couldn't fathom what my father was doing, grabbing all our food, some clothes, and me, wrecking our home, and running away. It wasn't until we were on a small buff outside the village that I blinked the last of sleep from my eyes and saw what I would later wish I hadn't.

Our village was burning nearly to the ground. Bodies lay here and there, corpses of the men and women I had known. Children lay near their parents' bodies, girls that tried and failed to doll me up, boys my father threatened to beat if they ever laid a hand on me. My friends. The fire reached our house, and I could see through the hole in one wall how it ate everything we have. I looked to my father, at his grave face. Though at the time I was too young to truly understand, I felt what he felt and gained knowledge that he knew. We were the only survivors. He had abandoned his comrades to save me. We would have to survive in the desert.  
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I'd never been so scared as I was those first few days. Father had sat me down and looked me straight in the eye. His still had the wolf-like gentleness, but the core was hard.

"Marisa," he'd said. "I'm sorry. This is going to be tough for us, and you might not like it, but we have no choice"

I had no idea what he was talking about. He drew a long cloth-wrapped package from the pile of supplies he brought with us. I watched in awe as he threw the canvas aside, revealing two long swords and a leather bag. One was longer than the other, heavy-looking, and with an odd crook-like point at the end. A Shamshir, he told me, a "lion's tail". The other was a plain double-sided iron sword. He picked up the bag and dumped it out, a dozen daggers and a few vials hit the sand. I looked up at him questioningly. Why would my father have these weapons?

"There's not a parent in a Jehannan village who doesn't have something like this. Mercenary things. I'm so sorry, but we have nowhere else to turn. I am going to turn you into a mercenary."

I could do nothing but stare at him. Like all Jehannan girls, I was bound to always be a tomboy, and I was fine with it. But becoming a sell-sword? I knew that in rough times, there was always mercenary work, and it wasn't uncommon for boys to take it up, but almost no girls did it. Most of them lived with their closest friends, helping one another to survive. Many married while very young in order to help support themselves and their families. It wasn't until I was grown that I realized that even a mercenary's deadly life is no better than throwing yours away.

He was making me do this to protect me. I couldn't see it then, but I can now as if he had said those exact words to me.

The next years were hard. I was always medium size, but frail. My first lessons would have torn my hands raw if my father had not given me gloves. He put blunt daggers around me as I slept to keep my on my right side (so my dominant left arm is always up). I ran miles in the blazing heat, slipping and tumbling in the loose sand. I learned the proper way to hold a sword, the tactics of battle, and every weakness the body could ever have. Day after day, year after year, we trained in the desert, hunting rough birds and whatever else was there, staying at the same oasis for weeks on end. I began feeling powerful after a while, and the power grew. I used to be frail, I remember. I still look it, though I can feel the strength. It wasn't long until I could heft the Shamshir, though it was too long and I too short for me to draw it right.

For seven years, we trained hard together. During that time, I learned things I never knew about him. He used to be the number one swordfighter in Jehanna, the Steel Wolf, until a man named Carlyle beat him. He'd made a vow to never fight again if someone beat him, so he never did. Then he met my mother and she had me, and he had new cause to never draw a blade again. He told my that he didn't want me to grow up with a father that stinks like metal. He wanted me to grow happy, using the money he saved as a sell-sword to support us, and he could stay home often and spend time with me. For nearly the entire time we spent preparing me for mercenary life, I had neglected seeing him as I once did. The man who was like a wolf, guarding me and guiding me, ready to tear apart anything that stood between me and happiness. I gained new respect for him that refused to stop growing.

Father took me to the mercenary guild a few times during my training, little more than one run-down building and a score of large tents around it, with the troops camps laying in the surrounding land. I was nearly fifteen when I joined the guild. Only fifteen. Still young and small, a foot shorter and probably half the weight of many of the men there. The recruiter would have turned me away immediately had father not been with me. Father insisted that he let me take the entrance tests, a half-mile obstacle course of sorts and a sparring match. I tore over tall wooden fences, darted without a problem through a deathtrap-like contraption, and tore down a dozen innocent straw dummies. In just under two minutes, barely sweating. Father had always stressed speed over strength. With a blunt practice sword, I easily bested an arrogant man who was among the ones twice my size. I hit him especially hard after he made a crack at my being a woman. The recruiter was dumbstruck; had my training not hardened me, I would be smug as a cat. I gave him my name, and he gave me a new one at the suggestion of father. The Crimson Flash. That's what I would go by, so troops wouldn't be turned away by a female's name. We waited in camp for only several days before I was hired.

"I heard there was a woman who could kill a man before he could draw his sword, and would beat him to the dust if he belittled her!" said my new chief, a friendly green-haired man. "I'm shocked I didn't have to fight anyone for you, after you smacked Jared down. He's one of mine, by the way, and sorry for what he said, he's a moron... Speaking of which, I'm Gerik, the Desert Tiger."

Father and I listened carefully as Gerik related the details of my contract. He told me that it was a great deal. He offered father a deal, as well. "I sure as heck would like another one of these!" Gerik said, pointing to me, and I barely avoided the urge to smack him. Father said no, he'd rather go and stay at a village we had passed on the way here. When I signed the contract, I wrote both of my names.

Gerik's Mercenaries got a job soon after I joined, and we were to head out to a neighboring country to stop a bandit group. That was my first time out of Jehanna. I remember biting back tears when I said goodbye to father. I never cried no matter how tough the training was. One of the things father taught me was being able to let go. As a mercenary, it is likely that one's companions may die around them. But it wasn't death. It is harder to say goodbye and come back to a person than it is to say goodbye and never see them again. I gave up my fight and cried into father's chest, and for the first time in years, I remembered what it was like before the bandit raid that destroyed my village.

I felt as if the gods had forsaken me two years later when I received a letter from a friend my father had made. He was dead. Disease had taken him, the only person I ever truly cared for. I thought back to the days a decade before, and the day I cried only a few years ago. I wished for them again. I wished I could cry, and it came true when the Chief came by and offered a broad shoulder and a promise to never mention what fell on it. He persuaded me to avenge father's untimely death by fighting my battles not in the name of our employer, but in the name of the man who was everything to me.

I decided that I would honor him. To this day, I proudly bear my father's sword.  
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WC: Me and my ending issues...

Notes:  
1. wolf-like gentleness: wolves are very gentle creatures, though they only show it to their kind, and many people fear them without reason.  
1. Shamshir Lion's tail? I read the weapon descriptions in Sould Calubur II and it said a Shamshir is a Persian sword, and it means 'lion's tail'. Interestingly enough, it also says a Wo Dao is a Japanese sword, and it used the ancient Chinese name for Japan (Wo, I guess). Soul Calubur II is neat.

IMPORTANT NOTE:  
Okay, y'all. I already know who the second chapter is gonna be about. You will **_NEVER _**guess who it is. After that, though, I'll take requests. If I don't get any, I'll just move on at my own free will for my own personal amusement, as well as for the people who read and don't review.


	2. Chapter 2

**My Father's Sword**, Chapter 2

Wandering Cat

Ready to figure out who the second chapter is about? Well, be ready for shock. But first, Review Responses:

**ManaMage**: Thank you very much. Marisa is a hard character to do.

**lalalalalaa**: uh, wh0t to you, too! Thank you very much for the kind words. Well, I'm not so sure about Valks using swords, but if I can find enough info on Mist, then I'll take a whack at it.

**AuthorOftheDark**: Well, nobody knows anything about Marisa's dad, but that didn't stop me. I'll do Karel and Karla, but they have to share a chapter, being that they share part of a past, but then I'll split the rest up between them. 'Kay?

**IceBlade28**: Thanks, mate!

Thank you guys!

Now ready to learn of this chapter's focal point? Hold on to your hats, you won't believe me. I bet NOBODY (excluding Ice, because I told him) thought of this character.

This chapter's star: --drum roll--**_MARCUS!_** That's right, Marcus. No, I'm not going to make fun of him. Well actually, I made him kinda dumb as a kid, but that'll fade right quick. Let me tell you, I love Marcyboy. I never would have made it as far as I did without him; he doesn't sap XP because I leave him in the middle and use him only when needed, nor does he waste weapons because I just give him crappy slim and iron swords, and he STILL kills everything that attacks him. He doesn't use vulneraries or any other healing thing because he never gets hit. So there. Here's to you, oh mighty jeigan.

...This one is rather short and crappy, though.

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I was an obedient kid. I did everything my mother and father told me too. Mother was a small, gentle woman. I surpassed her in height when I was eleven and in weight probably years before that. Father was a big, strong man with an aura and scowl that made even the brashest boy cower. They came in handy, his being a General in the Pheraean army, and in charge of training promising, and usually arrogant, new recruits. Perhaps it was those skills and his blood in my veins that made me so obedient. Even with that, I was possibly the stupidest of my peers, as far as common sense went.

Despite his ability to strike fear in grown men's hearts, I could tell he loved my mother and me to the ends of the earth and back again, no matter how he expressed it.

My father wasn't the smiling type, at least not in public. But when it was just us, our family of three, he was the kind of man that would laugh and joke and smile. If one of his recruits saw him, they'd drop dead with shock at his behavior.

He wove incredible, intricate yarns that wrapped my mother (who often faked surprise to humor me) and I so close, we were left breathless when he was done. He spoke of mighty knights who battled dragons in the Scouring, and likewise, the gentle, quite Dragonkin. During those tales, my jaw would drop, and my mind would spin. In each tale, there were Pheraen knights, whom my father said were the strongest of all. This is where my lack of common sense twirls in; I believed that a knightly title would make me just like the fantasy ones. I would be able to knock down entire castles with my bare hands, fight of hordes of monsters from another continent my father called Magvel, and I would converse with the dragonkin, and then kill them later. Dear Saint Roland, was I a stupid kid.

It was no surprise that when I was fourteen, I practically bounded out the door to sign up for training. It was a shock, however, to learn that I had been assigned under my father.

On my first day, I couldn't have been more excited. I didn't know why the other boys, most of whom were dirty and looked like farm boys, were so frightened. But then the reason walked through the door. I rarely saw my father's war face, or as the boys called it, "death glare". He scrutinized each of us, even me, like a vulture overseeing a dying animal. He glared at me twice when I smiled and waved to him. I never did it at training again.

I think I still ache from those few weeks I spent in 'boot camp'. We ran miles in the swamp carrying packs the size of a large dog, picked our way through an obstacle course that was more like a small half-wrecked forest, and survived hundreds of push-ups. It was, as we would have said back then, evil. The real training afterward was worse. If boot camp was evil, knight training was the king of the Underworld.

Oddly enough, I loved much of it. Even though my father had randomly turned into some cold man I didn't know, even though knighthood was what it was cracked up to be (at least not at this point), I still enjoyed it. I learned that my father developed a split personality, the war-man and the father, so it became easier to accept his rough side. The castle was far from home, so I stayed in the barracks and returned every weekend. I began to miss home, as well as my mother, despite the visits. But what I missed most was the time I spent with father. Sure, we spent hours together; him yelling and me doing whatever he said (thanks to my natural obedience, that was easy). What I missed were the stories and the warm looks and the stories he told to me.

For years, I endured the training I loved. I steadily rose in the ranks, up to a captain. I was honored and I could see how proud my father was. One day, father approached me in the barracks, face weathered from age. He wore his usual serious expression, but a pained look in his eye. I followed him out to the training ground, to the farthest, most barren corner. He handed me a wooden sword and took a spear for himself. For what must have been an hour, we sparred in that corner, taking small breaks and not saying a coherent word to each other. I did not know what exactly he was procrastinating telling me.

Finally, he motioned for me to stop. "Son, you've gotten stronger. More sensible, too. Good, I can't believe the idiot you were a years ago was my son." He paused. "Look, what I'm trying to say is...I'm glad you're getting far in life. I hope you keep going. You can be a general one day if you keep going as you are."

I couldn't understand. "Why are you saying this to me, Sir?" He winced heavily when I said "sir" and told me never to do it again. Again, I was confused and asked him to.

"I'm...resigning from the Knights of Pherae."

I was shocked; old as my father was, he was still incredibly powerful and he could keep up with knights half his age. I questioned him on it and he took a pained expression. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, looked up at me, and sighed again.

"I have to tell you something else. I'm so sorry, Marc. But I'm not going to see you become general." He gave me a sickly look, and for the first time, I saw how old he really was. He looked so frail. "I'm not going to see it, because I will not live that long. I've been ill for a year now, though I hid it well. It's been sapping away at me, and soon there will won't be anything left."

I dropped the training sword, and he handed me the silver one at his side.

Two years later, when I was twenty-three, he died. It was a grand funeral fit for a general like him. I did my best to console mother, but it was useless, she kept on going. He wished he hadn't been hardened. Then he could cry with her.

A few years later, I was in the ballroom with with the other high-ranking knights and nobles congregated when a nurse came in, followed a few moments later by Lord Elbert. In his arms were his smiling wife, who was holding a young baby.

I page stepped forward and announced, "Let the world know of Pherae's heir, Prince Eliwood! May you all and your children serve him well!"

I looked in Lord Elbert's face, and in his eyes shown with the same pride and joy that I remembered from my father.? I saw the same glow in milady's eyes, and it hurt to think of those eyes crying. And when I looked at the baby boy in her arms, I saw hope.

I swore by my father's sword that as long as there was an heir to the throne, a child to become a mother or father, that I would serve with my life. Almost two decades later, I renewed my vow when I witnessed Lord Eliwood cry over his father's corpse. I envied his tears, but renew I did.

I served first Elbert, then Eliwood. I would serve Eliwood's son as well.

My father's sword cut a swath through anyone who threatened them through three generations.

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WC: Whoo! I should hire someone to do endings for me, I hate them so much. But all in all, this wasn't so bad.

I hope I gave someone more respect for Marcus.

Next up: Karel and Karla


	3. Chapter 3

**My Father's Sword, chapter 3  
Wandering Cat**

Back again! I'm updating this first because people seem to like it more than Caged Bird. My Father's Sword now has three favorites and three alerts. Funny though, because the people who did that generally don't review. Same thing happened for Till Your Binds Break. It's sorta funny. Does that happen to everyone, or am I just special?

**Review Responses:  
somepersonxP:** Well, I don't really care if you hate him or not --smirk--. Oh, sorry about my mistake. I meant to write "A page", but I accidentally put "I page", right? I don't proofread well...Don't ask me about him being a rival. Is that in one of his supports?

**Cool-chan: **True, other's surpass him most of the time, but he's always been a great backup character, or good for whacking most of a boss so a weak character can kill it. I did that a lot, too. Well, thanks for reading!

**IceBlade28:** Thanks. POWER TO THE JEIGANS! I don't really consider myself a writer.

**Lao Who Mai: **That's right, I love Marcus like an imaginary uncle and I dont' care who knows it! In my opinion, there's more than enough enemies and EXP for him to snap away some random annoying warriors.  
PS--thanks for reviewing both A Few Seconds and Till Your Binds Break. For a long time, you were AFS' only reviewer.

**raedyn-l: **Thankya.

I need some suggestions for characters, y'all. The only character I have on deck is Mist, but I don't have enough on her to write about her. I'll continue on without suggestions, but it'd be nice to know what characters people want to read about. I'll do anyone, even Eliwood, as long as a sword is or can be part of their arsenal.

**This chapter's star: Karel, and Karla**, all in one! Oh boy... This is gonna be tough. I mean, the other two had happy, warm relationships with their dads, but Karel killed his. Hm. I'm not bumping the rating up because of Karel. So there will just be vague violence...Nothing to rant about today.  
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KAREL'S POV:

Only one can have the sword. There were five children, four boys, in our family. The girl is nonexistent. It was a tradition in our family to decide who gets the Wo Dao by having the boys fight one another.

I hate my ancestors. There can be no bloodshed in those battles. We were mocking each other by attacking with sticks. My eldest brother doesn't see it that way. He was an idiot. I hate him, too, so I made sure to hit him very hard. The battle lasted less than two minutes. Not a drop fell from him as he stood back up, and he gives me his idiotic smirk, as if to tell me that I won. My other brothers fell the same way, though one is harder than the other. The youngest, though small and frail looking, was very fast and for a moment, I could not keep up. His battle lasted exactly two minutes, not less. Ultimately, I was the chosen wielder of the Wo Dao. My little sister looked at me admiringly. I hate her, too. There was not a single red stain on the floor, and though I didn't quite notice it then, it annoyed me.

My father stared at me from across the room with his emotionless eyes, my mother nothing more than a pathetic shadow. He stood, Wo Dao at his hip, and approached me. With no use of dramatics, he ripped the sword from his hip and thrust it into my hands. "Use it well and wisely, Karel." was all he said.

My father was a pig. I never knew why I called him that, but he was. When I was little, a mere boy of ten, he snapped at my sister and hit her. She ran from the room crying. I didn't hate her then, so I went to find her. When I did hours later, the sunset had the sky glowing crimson. She had managed to sprain her ankle and had expended all of her energy crying. I picked her up and swung her on my back. It was at that moment that I came to truly hate my father. My hatred for my family was growing, and some had been placed on my annoying little sister. She whispered into my hair, "Thank you for finding me, big brother. I love you.", and that was when I replaced the hatred for her on my father.

The pig beat me when I got home. I hated him even more there, because all I did was help my sister.

That year I began learning swordsmanship under him. He was a brutal teacher, but I was a stubborn student. Hour after hour, sometimes for as long as a third of the day, he forced me to work like a beast of burden. He hung me by my feet from a tree, upside down, until I did one hundred crunches. He forced me to carry boulders as large as I was tall up the face of the small mountain near our home. They were common practices in training warriors of Sacae, but he took it too far. Many times I wish I weren't a man so I could cry.

It wasn't long before even the beast was satisfied with my skill. He didn't expect me to train by myself and build upon the mediocre skills he bestowed upon me. With a demon like possession, I continued my study, becoming more and more demented as I went. My sister often brought food to me. I always told her to go away and that I hated her. She always said that she loved me. And that she wished I would stop before I became a true demon. I just told her to go away again.

I had been training for five years, three on my own, when I fought my brothers and gained possession of the Wo Dao. It was a dark night when I snapped. My brothers fell first. Even the quick one, who was armed, fell immediately. The Dao screamed and gleamed with pleasure as I killed them. My mother was next. She didn't even try to run away or scream. I suppose it was better to die than keep living as a shadow. I almost felt remorse. 

Father glared at me almost calmly with his sword drawn. Perhaps he did care for us, because he looked from my brothers to mother, then lunged at me. I blocked, he parried. I spun, he ducked. I lunged, he keeled over. I smiled. All that was left was my sister. I felt no inclination to look for her, for she wasn't in the room.

For six years, I paraded around, killing off worthy opponents as the Sword Demon.

Years after that, I became the Sword Saint. As I look down at the sword that used to be my father's I feel the remorse of five years of killing.

I do not hate my sister. She found me during that war, and I remembered the times when she told me she loved me. I remembered what it felt like. Better than any kill. My sister didn't hate me, and that was enough. I don't hate her either. I haven't killed in years. Though, I do issue a regular threat to her moronic husband. Their daughter, who looks just like her mother did as a child, is what keeps me sane. Sister died from illness when Fir was three, but her love still lingers on that man and it absolutely radiates from her daughter, who is now 10. I imagine I stink of it, too. Nothing will happen to Fir as long as I live, even if it means drawing that forsaken blade again.

KARLA'S POV:  
  
Women do what men say. That was the law of our family. I imagine it was always like that. In Sacae, women are not usually the equals of men. I was the youngest of five children, with ten, eight, seven, and four years between my brothers and I. They were nice to me, except for the youngest boy who was distant from us all. His distance would cause a disaster when I was eleven. But until then, I lived like a regular girl. I did chores, usually helping my mother cook or sew most of the time, but when we finished early, I would go outside of the ger and play in the fields. Sometimes, one or more brothers would come and play with me for a bit, but only when father wasn't home. He didn't approve of boys playing meaningless games when there were always deer to hunt and crops to harvest. I couldn't fathom why, but we weren't part of a tribe. We lived out in the middle of nowhere.

Another thing I couldn't understand then was my attraction to the family sword, a Wo Dao. I knew it would never happen, but I sometimes dreamed of being a great swordsman. Girls were never to hold a sword, and if they were caught, they were punished. The Wo Dao was in a glass case in the central part of our home, a ger and a few tents for individual rooms. During dinner, I would steal glances at it. The only person to notice was Karel, the youngest boy. He glared at me when I did it, but just continued glowering at the rest of our family.

I was six when I dared to touch the hilt of the sword. Very carefully, I grasped the sheath as well and pulled several inches of blade out. It was a beautiful thing, so smooth and shiny. And sharp. I poked the edge with my finger, little more than a feathery touch, and it drew blood. I had an odd feeling in me when I touched it. I did it again, more boldy and less carefully a week or so later. This time, when I turned to leave, father stood in the doorway. For the first time, I was truly frightened. He screamed at me, calling me every degratory name he could think of. Three of my brothers poked their heads in the door, remorse in their eyes. I only noticed them when I ran from the room crying.

Several hours after I ran away, I sat afraid and defeated under a craggy maple tree, the blood red sun bright on my skin. My ankle was swollen from when I tripped over a root coming from the very tree I sat under. Soon, a figure broke the sunset, slicing in in half as he walked toward me. It was Karel. He picked me up and put me on his back, and took us home. I felt safe with him, and I was so tired. "Thank you for finding me, big brother. I love you." I told him quietly.

He got beaten when we returned. I felt sorry because it was my fault.

It was then that father made the biggest mistake of his life. He took Karel as his student after finishing with our other brothers. I often brought him food during his training, the times without father. I could see Karel's insanity, so why couldn't he? Couldn't he have guessed what havoc would be wrought? I did, and that's why I stole away into the wilderness whenever I got the chance, starting when I was eight, two years after Karel. Instead of playing in the fields, I trained myself in the woods. A stick as long as my leg was my weapon, my enemies and sparring partners were the trees.

It wasn't long before my skill started to show, and there were gashes in the tree bark where I had slashed at them. One night when I was eleven, I was practicing in the forest again, not caring if anyone found out anymore, when I heard sickening screams from the direction of our house. I knew what had happened. I knew they were dead, so I didn't go back. Instead, I merely gathered up my supplies and walked off into the direction of the blood red sun.

I never used the Wo Dao. I ended up finding a good steel sword in an abandoned bandit camp. I continued my training, entering an arena for the first time when I was fourteen to gauge my skill. I beat the stupid mercenary down with no trouble. I decided to wander the continent, looking for my brother and for a worthy opponent. I was sixteen when I ran into a certain warrior in an arena in Pherae. Another two years later, he would convince me to join the band of mercenaries and knights that my brother also resided in. The warrior would become my husband, and Karel would be an uncle.

I never liked fighting, ever. I am devastated that my daughter began showing interest in it at her young, young age, no matter how her father and I discourage it. Brother comes to see us often, but the visits are less joyous as I grow sicker. I fear I will leave this world soon and my family with it. I worry for my husband, who isn't the brightest man but I love him anyway, and my daughter, who may die by the sword I hate so much. Brother told me he was going to give her the Wo Dao when she turns ten, but forbid her to use it. I am too sick to argue. I am to sick to think anymore...  
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WC: Holy crap I'm finally done! Soooo...yeah.

Again, I need suggestions!

Notes: I had a huge issue with keeping with the past tense in the beginning. The last few paragraphs of each POV is in present, hopefully, because I wanted to put in their insight from Fuuin no Tsurugi. Of course, Karla dies before Karel's present tense crap, so the timeline is a little screwed up. Whoops. And also, when Karel says "my youngest brother", he means the third oldest of the four boys, himself being the youngest. I didn't make a mistake.

Next up:...I dunno. Maybe...Gerik. Or Franz. Dunno.


	4. Chapter 4

**My Father's Sword  
Wandering Cat**

My father died today. Which is why I'm writing on a Monday (If you did I'd appreciate it, but please don't tell me you're sorry; I'm not throwing myself a pity party. My dad would hate that. Just review the dang fic.) So here's the long-absent Gerik chapter. His relationship with his father is similar, but not totally like, to my own. Well actually, my father and I took part in none of the random crap I put in here, (father and son stuff, I never did because I'm a girl.) but the relationship is still the same. It won't be the best chapter (the Marisa one will always "pwn" all of them) or the longest, but still...Here's to you, daddy...

Uh...I got a crapload of suggestions just from Toki Kishitani. Also, I will now be open to characters from FE6-9, as I now own FE9 (I don't and have never played 6, but I know things.) However, I am not taking suggestions for now; you will tell me which of THESE PEOPLE you want to see if you want to dictate the future of this fic.  
Suggested Characters that I will do:  
-Joshua (next, by popular demand (as far as this fic goes))  
-Lyn  
-Matthew (no promises; I don't really consider him a swordsman)  
-Legault (same as Matthew)  
-Zihark (and yes, I will use Ilyana somehow, if it makes you happy)  
-Mia  
Characters I will do because it's my fic and I said so:  
-Rutgar  
-Fir (as she is Bartre and Karla's kid, thus making her automatically awesome)  
I AM NOT going to do:  
-Ike, because we know about his relationship with his father, even if I don't know the "secret"  
-Jaffar, as his parents were killed when he was young. Unless you want me to make Nergal his father figure.  
-Stefan, because he is a Branded and apparently "parentless"  
-Guy, because a lot of people (except for me) like him and I'm surprised nobody suggested him.  
-Lucia, because I like her.

**This Chapter's Star: Gerik**, with some added Gerik/Marisa because I can, and references to her chapter. Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem or any of its characters.  
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Looking back, I now know just how lucky I am for two reasons. For one thing, I'm currently witnessing the eighth wonder of the world; the Crimson Flash actually _crying_. She's not heartless, but man, who knew she had it in her? In her hands is what used to be a very nice sheet of paper. What was written on it, well, just plain sucked. Turns out, her dad just died of a sickness, and should already be buried, because it takes so long for a letter to get to us. She looked at the paper again, and burst into another fit of tears on my shoulder. Dang.

Oh, I almost forgot. The second thing that makes me so dang lucky? My childhood, for a poor kid, rocked. I had a mom and dad, a little sister, and a bunch of friends. Sure, I had to work a lot, but still. It was great. I can't imagine what Marisa's going through. I mean, as far as I know, Pops is still kickin'. My grandpa, "Old Pops" did die when I was about twelve. My sister, who should be about Marisa's age now but was six when it happened , was bawling like a baby. Being her big brother, I let her sit in my lap and cry on my shoulder. But man, our father? I can tell you right now, if it were my dad, I'd be crying like nobody's business. Seriously, I'm twenty-something, a guy, and you can call me a sissy if you want. Pops once said, "I'd rather be a friggin' sissy than a heartless..." Well, you can guess the rest from there.

I remember when I was little, he used to let me do all kinds of things that mom would never dream of! There was this time when we went off for a whole day without telling anyone, fishing and hunting and just goofing off. My mom was hysterical when I got home and grounded me and punished pops somehow (she was smiling evilly...I don't know what she did, but it must've sucked to be pops then). But man, it was cool. We also put a dead fish out in the sun, knowing that a group of girls would eventually run past it. That would've been funnier if my sister wasn't with them...We got in trouble for that, too. Pops and me did it all: sports, cooking outside for no reason, fixed stuff...It just plain rocked.

And then the day came when I was ten, two years before Old Pops left us, when we began our training. It wasn't just me; most boys learn the way of the sword in case we're needed. A milita, if you could call it that. Of course, it was one of those things that mom didn't want me to do. She did have my best interests in mind; there were a crapload of bandits around. One of the other mysteries of my household is how in the world my father convinced her to let me go out into the desert. She really hated the desert.

The training was okay, I guess. Like everything, some parts suck and others suck worse. But I dealt with it. After a couple of days, we went back to the village and tended the crops and such. Often, the tending was the training. Plowing with just one lanky donkey...real fun. My dad did make it better, always cracking inappropriately timed jokes and other random things...like throwing cow pies at me. He did that a lot...blech. Pops also made me carry huge rocks around, hung me by my toes from trees until I did 100 crunches (AN: did I use that somewhere before...?), all kinds of crap. It was still cool, spending time with him.

I got really strong, really fast. When I was sixteen, we had our first bandit raid. Pops and me fought side by side, taking down everyone. Like most people, we were basically standing guard near our houses, and I could hear my little sister crying and my mom trying to comfort her. If there's one thing that'll drive a man to tear another to ribbons, it's love, and heck, do I love my family! I fought like a freakin' demon and so did my dad. We were a team and nobody could beat us. Finally, the action died down along with the bandits, and only one of our own died.

Apparently, a scout from the mercenary guild was there, and he was looking for talented young men to join up. And guess what? He asked me and pops. Said we'd do real well in the merc business, and with me being so young, I could go far. Pops decided to stay home, but he told me, "You got yourself a future, Ger-boy. Unless you're the idoit I think you are, you won't waste it." He handed me a steal sword, and his eyes were shining...This sword is more than just a piece of steel hammered into an unatractive shape to me.

The next week, I was taking the entrance "test" (obstacle course plus sparring match) and I passed with flying colors. I got myself onto a good team. The boss took a liking to me, and when he died as a result of combat, proclaimed me leader, changing the name to "Gerik's Mercenaries".

And two years later, I was sitting in a tent with none other than the soon-to-be-famous Crimson Flash and her daddy. "I heard there was a woman who could kill a man before he could draw his sword, and would beat him to the dust if he belittled her!" I said, and she looked at me weird. I wanted to give her father a deal, too, and I said, "I sure as heck would like another one of these,", but he declined, and again, Marisa looked like she was gonna tear my head off.

...Looks like she's done. Too bad she's so hurt, she fell asleep on my shoulder and looks really adorable...Poor thing. She always won, she doesn't' know what it's like to lose. Looking at her now, I know a third reason why I'm so freaking lucky.

I've got her.

As long as she needs it, as long as my father's blood beats in my veins, I will proudly bear his sword.  
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WC:...I don't' really feel like whining about my issues with ending...I've done that at least once in each of my fics, haven't I? Yeah, I think so. I sure whine a lot...I don't even have any notes this time. Is this to be my ending note? I really DO suck at ending things...Um...Review?


End file.
